


my dark havana

by dashwood



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Andrés is a selfish ass but what else is new, Angst, Grinding, M/M, Martín is horny on main, Pre-Canon, Resolved Sexual Tension, Self-pity and self-loathing, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Smut, aiming to win boom_slap's 'this is my jam' bingo card, how did I do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25075627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashwood/pseuds/dashwood
Summary: “What do you say, Martín?" Andrés says, his voice sultry, positivelysinful. “Show me a good time?”Prompt: South America, dancing, drinking, a whole lot of sexual tension with a side of angsty pining.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 26
Kudos: 128





	my dark havana

**Author's Note:**

  * For [boom_slap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/gifts).



> —whose birthday – tragically – coincides with my writer’s block. I tried to scrape something together anyway, and what could possibly make a better gift than the fill for your prompt-as-old-as-time: _South America, dancing, drinking, a whole lot of sexual tension with a side of angsty pining_. 
> 
> Happy Birthday, dear. I hope it’s a good one. 
> 
> (P.S. As you can see, I did _not_ work on the Twins fic, which means that you’re now legally obligated to hunt me down and punch me in the face. I shall be waiting.)

The sun slides into the ocean like a golden disk skip-skipping across the waves. It plunges the sea into iridescent shades of crimson and red, turning water into wine. The palm trees are swaying in the breeze, seemingly dancing to the notes of _Havana_ ( _I knew him forever in a minute, hey!_ ) lingering in the air. It’s a heavenly sight, so picturesque and resplendent and... _nice_. 

Martín sighs. 

No matter how hard he tries, he’ll never be as eloquent, as worldly, as sophisticated as Andrés. He'll never learn to see the Argentine Sea as anything but a thick broth infested with poisoned fish and _Dio_ 's plastic bags. There’s nothing beautiful about it, and Martín can't fathom how Andrés could look at it and see something charming, something marvelous. 

(Martín can't fathom how Andrés could look at _him_ and see something worthwhile.) 

With a heavy heart, Martín lowers his gaze to his hands. He’s scratching at the soggy label of his empty beer, absentmindedly peeling it off like the skin of a clementine. His nails are stained with dirt, the product of a slew of menial jobs he’s had to take on to pay off his student loans, to make ends meet on his ridiculously overprized one-room flat, to afford the luxury or having one hot meal a day. 

His life is a fucking farce. 

Or at least it used to be. Until he met Andrés.

Andrés, who buys him bespoke suits and takes him to Michelin-starred restaurants. Who lets Martín ramble about thermodynamics and doesn't laugh at him when he picks the wrong spoon for his dessert. Who is charming and brilliant and _radiant_.

Lately, Martín has been lying awake for hours at night, wondering how much longer it’ll take Andrés to realize his mistake. To figure out that Martín is a fraud, that he's nothing but a worthless stray hanging on Andrés' coattails, trailing after him. 

(Martín can't help but feel like _la_ _Cenicienta_ 's step-sister cutting off her own toes to please a prince who isn’t meant for her.) 

The truth is, no matter how much Andrés seems to be holding out the hope that Martín will one day – under his guiding hand and watchful eye – turn into a butterfly, Martín is bound to disappoint him. He regards himself as more of a moth, instead. Dirty wings and stained feelers, drawn to the light, eager to burn. 

Destined to die a slow, painful death. 

His thoughts are interrupted when something cold and icy stings the back of his neck, causing Martín to jump in his seat. He curses and whirls around, only to find himself face to face with Andrés, grinning down at him like the cat who got the canary. He’s holding a shiny ice cube pinched between his fingers, and Martín watches, entranced, as Andrés brings it up to his mouth and slips it past his lips. 

Martín wants to _moan_. Wants to reach out and trace the seam of Andrés' lips with his thumb, wants to tell him _you’re tasting my sweat, my skin_ – _that’s_ me _on the tip of your tongue_ , but what he says instead is— 

“That’s disgusting.” 

The harsh words clash with the hoarseness of his voice, and Andrés throws his head back and laughs. He’s clearly amused by Martín's lack of self-control, by the feisty prickliness he slips on like a second skin. Martín has always been quick to anger, too emotional, too much. 

(And yet never enough.) 

Andrés slides into the seat next to him, their shoulders bumping as he pushes his glass of whiskey towards Martín's fumbling fingers, like it's perfectly normal to share a drink between the two of them. Not that Martín’s complaining. 

“What do you think about her?” 

Andrés nods towards the bar, a lazy smirk stretching across his face. It’s a predatory thing, sharp teeth and eyes a-glinting in the dying sunlight. Martín would give anything to see that look directed at _him_. But it’s hopeless, of course, and so Martín clamps down on his disappointment and follows Andrés' gaze to a petite brunette swaying in a corner near the bar, lost in the dulcet tones of Clavier’s _La_ _Mitad_.

“She’s pretty,” he says, careful to keep his face impassive. "For you?" 

Andrés huffs. 

“Of course, for _me_. She’d be wasted on you, my friend.” 

Martín blanches, heart catching in his throat. 

“What-” He cuts himself off, takes a shaky breath. Tries again. “What do you mean?” 

“Don’t insult me, Martín." Andrés tuts, the sound cold and disapproving, as if Martín has offended him. As if he has _disappointed_ him. “I’m a very observant man, and you have been staring at the bartender for a little too long.” 

Martín flinches like he has just been slapped in the face. He doesn’t know what he was thinking, doesn’t know why he even kept his sexuality from Andrés in the first place. No, that’s a lie. He knows exactly why he did it: Because he was _terrified_ that Andrés would mock him, that his eyes would harden with disgust, that Andrés would _leave_. 

He swallows past the lump in his throat. 

“Do you mind?” 

“Of course, I mind,” Andrés says, and Martín's stomach drops. "Why would you stare at a subpar bartender when I’m sitting right here?” 

There’s a beat of silence between them, squeezed tight with the chatter of people, the music reverberating throughout the bar, the blood rushing to his head. For a moment Martín just stares at Andrés, taking in the self-satisfied smile, the smugness in his eyes, the arrogant tilt of his head. He looks like he _knows_ that he’s the most desirable man in the whole bar. That his mere company is a gift, invaluable.

Unbelievable, Martín thinks. 

Coming from anyone else, those words would have been an invitation, a proposition. And yet Martín doesn’t think that’s what this is. Doesn’t think that he’s allowed to put his hand on Andrés' thigh and _squeeze_ , doesn't think that he should lean in and nibble at the shell of his ear, doesn’t think that anything good would come from offering himself up for Andrés' pleasure, eager and needy and willing. 

Andrés is like an anglerfish, shining bright, and Martín is his prey. 

“You should go over. Show her a good time,” Martín says eventually, clearing his throat. Truthfully, he’d much rather keep Andrés by his side. The mere notion of seeing him slip away with someone else is tearing him apart. But their bond is still fresh, a fledgling thing, and Martín doesn't want to appear greedy. Insatiable. 

Andrés makes a contemplative sound, tipping his finger against his lips, once, twice, before nibbling at the tip with his teeth. Martín bites back a groan. 

“I’m not sure,” Andrés says, his tone coy and mock-innocent. It should be ridiculous – Andrés isn’t a defenseless damsel – and yet the effect isn’t lost on Martín. He wants to drag Andrés out of the bar and fucking _debauch_ him in a darkened alley, wants to claw and scratch at him and beg him to fuck him, _hard_. 

"Aren’t the people in Argentina a bit loose? Not as cold and stiff as us Europeans.” 

“ _A bit loose_?” Martín echoes, rolling the words around his tongue as though he's just heard them for the first time. “How dare you. We’re _very_ loose.” 

Andrés throws his head back as laughter spills from his lips, and Martín's eyes are drawn to the elegant column of his throat. Oh, how he _craves_ to lean in and lick the sweat of it. To trace his Adam’s apple with his tongue, sink his teeth into the expanse of bare skin where his neck meets his shoulder. 

Martín swallows. 

“What do you say, Martín?" Andrés says, his voice sultry, positively _sinful_. “Show me a good time?” 

Slowly, Martín's face splits into a grin. Without breaking eye contact, he chucks back the rest of Andrés’ – of _their_ – whiskey before slipping out of his chair and making his way towards the dancefloor. Behind him, Andrés chuckles at his eagerness, seemingly delighted by the bounce in his step, the way Martín keeps looking over his shoulder to make sure that Andrés is still there, that this is really happening. 

Martín finds them a spot on the terrace, simply because he enjoys how the crisp evening breeze ruffles his hair and cools his sweat. Enjoys, too, how the fading sunlight brings out the warmth of Andrés' eyes, the flush of his cheeks. Andrés looks beautiful, _powerful_ , and Martín feels something clench inside his chest. His heart stutters, holding its breath in anticipation. It feels as though something deep inside of him is simmering, impatiently waiting to take over, to take control. 

Reaching out, Martín takes Andrés’ hands and places them on his waist before stepping into his personal space so their bodies are flush against each other, barely a fingerbreadth between them. It’s a gutsy move, but the whiskey has made him bold, and the dark glint in Andrés' eyes has made him foolish. 

(It’s a recipe for disaster.) 

“Here,” Martín rasps, voice rough with desire, "we dance like this.” 

He begins to move his hips, swaying lazily from side to side and encouraging Andrés to do the same. When he does, Martín grins and nods and tells him _yes, just like that,_ _querido_. He’ll never get enough of the way Andrés' body moves, so exquisitely. He has a dancer's grace, a timeless elegance that clings to him. 

The music pushes into their bodies, finding them willing vessels. Martín feels it swelling inside his chest, scorching hot. Like he’s burning from the inside out. It doesn't help that Andrés is looking down at him, his stare intense and unreadable, as if he's trying to figure something out. As if he is _fascinated_ by Martín (no one has ever looked at him like that. It's intoxicating, and already Martín fears that he'll get used to it. It'll make it even harder on him once Andrés leaves, a _when_ not an _if_.)

After a moment Andrés snaps out of his daze, eyes refocusing as his lips twitch into a sinister smile. It should have been warning enough, red and fiery like the shimmering scales of a poisonous snake, but Martín has always been too bold, too foolhardy. He stays completely still as Andrés shifts his hips and wedges a thigh between Martín's legs, and it's then that Martín realizes that he's painfully hard. 

Martín freezes, his cheeks burning with shame. With humiliation. He tries to pull away, ashamed of his body’s reaction, but Andrés doesn't let him. Instead, he tightens his grip on Martín's hips, fingers digging into his skin hard enough to bruise. 

“My, Martín. You're easy to rile up, aren't you?" Andrés leers down at him. “I’m flattered.” 

“Fuck you,” Martín grinds out through clenched teeth. His eyes are prickling with tears, hot and irate. He can feel the anger rising up inside of him, coiling low in his stomach. A confusing mixture of embarrassment and indignation and blood-curdling _fear_. 

“Is that what you’d like to do, hmm?” Andrés chuckles. “Fuck me?” 

The words are sharp and vulgar, and yet Martín groans, his knees buckling at the thought. He hasn’t considered it, hasn’t even _dared_ to imagine it, and yet... To spread Andrés out on the bed beneath him, to press a kiss to his sweaty brow as he sinks into him. Andrés looking up at him, calm and poised, telling him _like this_ and _faster now_ and _that’s it, you’re such a good boy_. 

Martín whimpers. 

“No,” he lies. 

Impossibly, Andrés' smile widens. Shark-like and dangerous, and Martín can't help but feel like he’s just stepped into a deadly trap, the snare tightening around his neck. 

“Ah, I see. You want me to fuck you,” Andrés drawls. "As lovely as that sounds, that's not what I want from you.” 

“I know,” Martín bites out because he can’t bear to hear the rejection. Can’t bear to listen to Andrés telling him that he’s not good enough, that he’ll _never_ be good enough. “I get it.” 

“Ah, but you don’t understand,” Andrés says. “I’m a generous man.” 

Martín opens his mouth to ask him what the fuck he means, but all rational thought flies from his mind when Andrés grinds his thigh against his surging cock. Martín sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes fluttering shut. 

“Go on,” Andrés presses, "take what you need." 

The words are condescending, and Martín opens his mouth to hiss and snarl and tell Andrés to _fuck off_. Martín is a big boy, he can deal with rejection. He doesn't need Andrés' pity, doesn't need anything from him. But then Andrés pulls Martín’s hips towards him, against his thigh, and Martín _groans_. To feel Andrés against him like this, separated only by a few layers of clothing... it feels so fucking _good_.

Andrés' hands are scorching hot against Martín's waist, pushing and pulling and encouraging him to move against him. And Martín does. 

All of his ability to feel guilty – to feel _ashamed_ – about rubbing against his friend, his confidante, against _Andrés_ quickly flies out the window. His head is spinning as he rolls his hips against Andrés, cock greedily chasing the heat, the friction. 

It’s so _fucking_ good that Martín wants to _sob._

Fuck it, Martín thinks. He doesn't care. Doesn’t care about the people dancing around them, bumping into his back and pushing him closer to Andrés. Doesn't care about the fucking smirk on Andrés' face, his cocksureness. None of it matters. The only thing Martín cares about is the delicious heat of Andrés' thigh pressed against his aching cock, the rush of arousal coiling low in his gut, spurring him on. 

Andrés is staring at him with burning eyes, and Martín isn't quick enough to hold back the moan that erupts from deep within his chest, dark and wanton. 

“This is what you want,” Andrés says, and despite the haze of lust clouding Martín's mind, he notes that it’s not a question. It’s a statement, a dirty secret, a _command_. 

“Yes,” Martín _whines_ , his voice broken by desperation. He can’t believe that Andrés is allowing him to do this, that he's _encouraging_ him even. That he lets Martín rub against him like a fucking dog. There’s no art to it, no finesse. Instead, it’s clumsy and needy, _pathetic_. 

And yet Martín doesn't stop. He keeps going, picking up speed, pressing against Andrés like a needy thing. His body is urging him to go harder and faster, and Martín sinks his teeth into his bottom lip until it fucking _bleeds_ just to keep himself from _begging_ Andrés to take him to the restroom, to bend him over the sink and fuck him _hard_. 

“Slow down,” Andrés says, fingers twisting into the flesh of his waist. “Remember we’re not alone. You wouldn’t want us to get thrown out, would you? We’d have to stop, and you’d be left like this, hard and aching. So desperate to come, to be fucked.” 

His words send a shiver down his spine, making him tremble. Martín feels hot all over, sweat beading at his temple. His breath is coming out in short puffs, panting hot and damp against Andrés' neck. His body keeps moving against him, screaming at him to _keep going, don’t stop, please, just fucking please_. 

“I want to make you come,” Andrés says, and Martín sobs against him. “I’m _going_ to make you come.” 

There’s no doubt that Martín is going to embarrass himself soon, coming in his pants like a fucking teenager on his first date. But he couldn’t possibly draw this out any longer, not when Andrés is staring down at him with heated eyes, fingers digging painfully into his skin as he sets a punishing pace, encouraging Martín to grind against him harder. It’s too much. Martín can barely keep himself upright. 

“Will you come when I tell you to, Martín? Will you let me see?" 

“Yes.” Martín nods, frantic. "Andrés, _please_." 

Not much longer now, he doesn’t need much more. If Andrés were to lean in and kiss him, he'd fall apart. Martín's whole body is trembling, burning, burning, bright. He whines, the sound stifled against Andrés' throat. Just... he needs— 

“Now, Martín." 

Of course, his body gives in then. Martín lets out a choked sob as his cock twitches and he comes inside his pants. He barely feels Andrés wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him from falling over, breathless and blinded by pleasure. He can’t think; there’s nothing left but Andrés, the smug look on his face, the heat of his body, the woodsy scent of his cologne. 

The way Andrés holds him tight, how he makes Martín _feel_. 

Martín is panting, bleary-eyed and exhausted. His knees are shaking, but still he’s reaching for Andrés. He wants – no, he _needs_ to touch him. Needs to taste him, to suck his cock until he gags, until his eyes fill with tears, until his head is empty. 

“Here, let me—” 

Andrés laughs, and it’s enough to snap Martín out of his daze, a dousing of ice-cold water. Martín's arms fall back to his side, limp like vines. 

“What are you going to do, hmm? Suck me off in the middle of the dancefloor?” 

Andrés' words are knives, and yet the look on his face is surprisingly soft. He seems almost fond, as if he’s _amused_ by Martín's disorientation, by the fact that he has managed to make him forget all about his surroundings. About himself. 

“We’ll go then,” Martín says, not caring that he’s practically begging. “To my place. You can fuck me, or I can suck you off. Whatever you want, I’ll give you anything—” 

“That won’t be necessary,” Andrés says, shaking his head. “I believe I shall try my luck after all. You have _inspired_ me, Martín." 

He presses a chaste kiss to his sweaty brow before pushing past him towards the bar, leaving Martín behind. All around him, people are moving to the beat of _La_ _Tortura_ , dancing and swaying and brushing up against him, and yet Martín feels alone. His skin his hot and flushed, his pants are sticking to his skin with come. He feels cheap, filthy. 

Unwanted. 

His chest clenches as he watches Andrés slip away. Martín wants to follow him, wants to reach out and grab the back of his blazer. Wants to pull him close and spit in his face, to make Andrés understand that he can’t just leave him, that they belong together. That they both want the same thing: a life of grandeur, each moment bigger and better and tastier than the last. 

Instead, he closes his eyes and sees sharp teeth glinting in the dark, opening wide to swallow him whole. Luring him in, closer and closer still. 

Until Martín burns, like a moth, wings fluttering to ashes. 

**Author's Note:**

> As always, you can also find me on [tumblr](http://www.sorrydearie.tumblr.com) or [twitter](http://twitter.com/sorrydearie). Come and say hi.


End file.
